Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  Crowds had begun to gather at the edge of the port, watching and tense. There was no applause and no petal throwing. This was, after all, a foreign nation, for all its reliance upon Rome to help solve its troubles from time to time. The arrival of a consul in state and with a sizeable force of both men and ships would not be welcome in every quarter.

  Once they were assembled, the general gave the command once more and they began to move at a stately pace towards that bright, intricate palace gate. They had passed through much of the port and were closing on the complex when it became clear that a welcoming committee was assembling.

  Soldiers were massing in the courtyard beyond the gate and, while that portal remained open, there was a tangible air of menace floating around. Fronto frowned at the gathering men. There were three distinct units assembling in lines, quite efficiently, and they were all individually odd, let alone as a group standing side by side.

  To the right a unit of darker-skinned Aegyptians wore only an ornately-decorated white tunic and no helmet or armour, brown shields with pointed top and bottom showing an eagle standing atop a thunderbolt, strange curved swords belted at their sides and tall Macedonian-style lances in hand.

  In the centre, men with brown tunics and blue cloaks and sporting long beards, carried white shields of a very Celtic design with the same eagle motif, clad in ornate bronze helmets and bearing Greek-style blades

  To the left stood a unit of what appeared to be legionaries, although bearing once again that Ptolemaic eagle design, blue tunics and what looked to be leopard pelts over their mail shirts. While they were probably very impressive, what struck Fronto as he sweated beneath the searing Aegyptian sun was how damned hot they had to be under all that.

  ‘Who are they all?’ Galronus asked from horseback, next to Fronto.

  ‘The ones on the right, I’ve no idea. Some native unit, clearly. The ones in the middle I think must be part of the royal guard. The ones on the left are the Gabiniani, I presume. They were stationed here about seven years ago to support the old king, Ptolemy the Twelfth, after a revolt. They’ve never been recalled, and I’d heard they had even stopped drawing pay from Rome, taking their wage now from the Aegyptian rulers. I don’t know a lot about them, but I suspect they will be Ptolemy the Thirteenth’s men now. Whatever the case, they don’t look very pleased to see us.’

  The lictors marched up to the very threshold of the palace gate and looked set to march straight into or over the waiting soldiers until Caesar gave the command to halt just short of them. For a few tense moments the two forces stood opposing one another, not a jocular face in evidence. The atmosphere could have been cut with a knife. Fronto eyed up the Alexandrian units. They were roughly equal in number to Caesar’s force outside the gate, but that was without most of the army, which remained on ships or mustered on the docksides. Combined, they would seriously outnumber the Aegyptians.

  Finally, a man in a curious uniform stepped out ahead of all three units. He wore a gleaming bronze muscled cuirass embossed with a weird combination design that included both Greek and Aegyptian elements. His blue tunic was of rich linen, banded with gold, and his helmet was of a strange eastern design. His long blue cloak hung limp. When he removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm he was clearly a local, though he sported a short, curly beard in a more Greek fashion.

  ‘Such a foreign display of military might is not welcome in the realm of the Mighty Warrior of Horus, He of the Two Ladies of Upper and Lower Aegyptus, Divine Beloved of Gold, Lord of Two Lands of Sedge and Bee, Father of the Black Land and son of Ra, Ptolemy Theos Philopator the Thirteenth. This is an infringement of the royal authority of the house of the Lagidae. I command that you embark once more and leave these shores, lest the wrath of his Majesty be brought down upon you.’

  Caesar’s face rippled through several expressions, including downright disbelief and genuine amusement, but finally settled into a cold glare. Fronto could imagine how the Alexandrian officer felt. Few men could meet that look and not quail. It was one of Caesar’s strengths. After a deliberate pause, the general walked his horse slowly forwards between the ranks of lictors until he was directly in front of the officer, then stopped.

  ‘I am here as a consul of Rome, which has a vested interest in the ongoing stability and fortune of your nation and its rulers. Accords were agreed between the senate of Rome and the former pharaoh, Ptolemy Auletes, which give me every right to attempt to mediate in any situation that could have a direct effect on the republic. Unless you are willing to be the man who breaks sacred accords between our two nations and opens a conflict with the legions of Rome, then I very much suggest you return to your barracks, stand down and desist from interfering in the affairs of your betters.’

  He took three steps forwards, so that his horse was almost standing on the officer’s foot. The officer looked somewhere between astonishment and horror, now, and was probably wishing he hadn’t removed his helmet.

  ‘I presume,’ Caesar continued, ‘that the Mighty Warrior of Horus, He of the Two Ladies of Upper and Lower Aegyptus etcetera etcetera, Ptolemy Theos Philopator is not currently in residence, or does his send lackeys while he hides in the dark?’

  The officer tried to straighten and take back some control. It was a valiant effort, if doomed from the start. ‘His Majesty is encamped with his army in the delta where the cursed usurper and witch Cleopatra sits with her hired force of easterners.’

  ‘Good,’ Caesar said in a businesslike manner. ‘Then we shall quarter ourselves in the palace with his assured hospitality until his return. You may go.’

  The man stared in shock, and Caesar simply turned and gestured the column across to the steps of the palace.

  * * *

  In fact, despite what Caesar had announced to the officer, who had quickly led his soldiers away, the general had consulted with one of the palace’s senior eunuchs upon their arrival and had quite happily accepted quarters for he and his officers in a guest wing. Within an hour of the officers settling in, the common soldiery quartered close by within the ramparts, they had been made very welcome, food and drink brought, baths prepared and beds plumped up and made ready.

  Two hours after that the officers had assembled in a common room with a balcony that looked out over the port and strange columns carved to look like some ribbed plant with a burst of colourful petals at the capital. The floor was covered with soft animal pelts and the furniture was of dark wood, inlaid with gold designs. The level of opulence was staggering.

  A master trader had been located in another part of the guest quarters and was now in attendance as the most sensible available source of information. It was an accepted thing in strange lands – scouts could learn a lot, but traders already knew everything they could find out about their local market. If you were new to a place and you wanted to find out about it, ask a trader.

  ‘So the queen is encamped at Pelusium?’ the general frowned. ‘On the far side of the delta, yes?’

  The trader nodded. ‘Very far. Perhaps one hundred fifty, perhaps two hundred of your mile.’

  ‘And Ptolemy is?’

  ‘His army many place. Blocking Alexandria to Queen. Main camp at Sais, perhaps fifty mile, yes?’

  ‘There would appear to be little chance of reconciling the royal couple.’

  The trader laughed. ‘He hate her. She hate him. Much hate.’

  They had been listening to his breakdown of the political situation in Aegyptus for quarter of an hour. They’d tried several times to steer his account, but he was intent on rambling at his own pace. What he had told them, though, was gold dust to any strategist.

  ‘And you mentioned that the queen had Syrian and Nubian generals and a mostly Syrian and Palestinian army. Who leads that of Ptolemy?’

  The man grinned. ‘Achillas is general for king. Powerful. Wise. He is soldier. But king also rely on eunuch called Potheinus. He regent and politic.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Caesar gave the man a few coins
and gestured to Ingenuus, who stood by the door. Take the man out of here and buy him a few drinks. See if there is anything else he forgot that we might need to know.’

  The praetorian officer saluted, and the trader waved goodbye and went out happily with him.

  ‘We seem to be in a somewhat difficult and very unusual position,’ Caesar sighed. ‘In attempting to put an end to our own civil war we have stumbled into another, in which we have a very important stake. There will come a difficult decision, I fear, very soon. Do we throw our support behind Ptolemy, who seems to be rather unfriendly to us and I understand may be the weaker candidate, but who, being male, will find it greatly easier to gather the support of his nation. The Aegyptians are traditionally wary of powerful women, unless they are married to kings who can overrule them. So that is our other choice. Cleopatra, who remains an unknown quantity, but will be a more difficult candidate to put on the throne without resistance.’

  ‘Or do we let them fight it out and see who wins?’ murmured Cassius thoughtfully. ‘This problem is not our main priority after all. We are not here for them, remember?’

  Before the conversation could progress, though, raised voices drew the attention of all present, and their eyes slid to the doorway. The guards there did not move to block the entrance, but Fronto did note that most of them put their hands on their sword hilts and loosened them in the scabbard, all the same. The officers arrayed themselves so that they all faced the door in concert just as the source of the voices appeared.

  Salvius Cursor stepped into the room and Fronto was astonished to see that he had managed to get his chest and one arm covered in blood somehow. The man was a damn miracle when it came to seeking violence. Behind him several other figures lurked in the shade of the portico.

  ‘Tribune?’ Caesar prompted, looking him up and down.

  Salvius frowned, then looked down at his chest in surprise as though he couldn’t understand where the blood had come from. ‘This, sir? Oh we’ve had a few run-ins between our boys and the less careful members of the local garrison. I’ve made sure that none of our men start any trouble, but I’ve made it clear that they have full permission to end it when someone else does.’

  Caesar nodded his approval, and Fronto studied Salvius. There was something about him that looked odd. Nervous. Twitchy.

  ‘There’s a deputation here to see you, General,’ the tribune announced. ‘Say they’ve come from Sais.’

  ‘From Ptolemy?’ mused Caesar. ‘But not the king himself. We have been here less than three hours and Sais is fifty miles away. Someone broke a horse or two to get here as fast as they can. But then, if Ptolemy is, as I suspect, harbouring Pompey, then our arrival might prompt such speedy action.’

  Salvius stepped aside and beckoned to the men without. They entered slowly, four men in those slightly altered Roman uniforms that identified them as members of Ptolemy’s Gabiniani cohorts. Two of them wore centurion’s crests, and the other two were ordinary legionaries. The man who was clearly their leader stepped forwards and essayed a curt bow, his leopard pelt slumping forwards as he did so.

  ‘Lucius Septimius, sir, commanding Second Century, First Cohort of the Gabinianus legion.’

  Caesar nodded. ‘Greetings, Centurion. To what do we owe this honour?’

  The centurion stepped aside, as did the other more senior officer, and the two soldiers behind them carried forth a box and placed it on a low table. Caesar frowned at the container, which was perhaps two feet long in each dimension and made of good wood.

  ‘A gift,’ the centurion said, ‘from the pharaoh Ptolemy Theos Philopator the Thirteenth for the consul of Rome.’

  Caesar’s eyebrow rose a little. He gestured to one of the praetorians, who still had their hands on their sword hilts, watching these foreigners like hawks. ‘Open it.’

  The man let go of his weapon and stepped across to the table. With a brief, suspicious, look at the Gabiniani, he carefully undid the catch and lifted the lid. Fronto watched the man’s face fall into an expression of horror and disgust. He already knew with a sinking feeling what it was, before the man reached gingerly inside and lifted out the contents.

  The legate was grateful that whoever had embalmed the head had at least cauterised the neck. The soldier holding it aloft by the curly hair was clearly having trouble keeping in his stomach’s contents.

  Pompey did not look dead. The embalmers had done an excellent job. It was, after all, something the Aegyptians were noted for. Pompey’s broad face even managed a slightly constipated smile. Fronto shivered. His hand shot out instinctively and grasped Salvius’ wrist just as the tribune made to step forwards. Salvius turned to him, a weird and awful expression on his face, and Fronto simply shook his head.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Caesar asked, his tone so cold and hard it felt like marble flowing through the ears. Centurion Septimius frowned. ‘Behold, mighty consul of Rome, the head of your enemy. His Majesty presents you with a gift to end your war.’

  Fronto looked from the centurion to the head and back, and then again, and suddenly, frowning, he turned to the other centurion. Three of the four Gabiniani were facing Caesar, their expressions hopeful. The other centurion, though, was favouring Salvius Cursor with an unreadable expression, and there was something about him...

  Caesar stepped just one pace forwards. ‘A gift? The head of Pompey Magnus a gift?’

  Septimius, confused and more than a little uncertain now, nodded. ‘Yes, Consul. Your enemy is vanquished.'

  ‘My enemy remains scattered around Africa and the east, you fool. My enemy is all those senators who sought my prosecution and who took up arms against me. Pompey? Pompey was the man they chose for a general, but he was vanquished on the field of Pharsalus. Pompey might have faced me in battle,’ Caesar hissed, his voice bearing an edge like a gladius, ‘but he is still a Roman hero, the victor over the pirates, thrice feted with triumphs, a consul, a general, a senator.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And my son-in-law.’

  Septimius finally seemed to realised what had gone wrong and he blanched, as did his companions. Not, Fronto noted, the other centurion, who was still looking at Salvius.

  Caesar pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered his head, eyes closed. There was a long, worrying silence, and then he straightened, his face stony. ‘You two,’ he pointed at the two legionaries who had borne the head. ‘Take this and locate the rest of my son-in-law’s body. Makes sure it is as well preserved as possible and reunite the two. Then have it delivered to the palace while I try and decide whether to accord him appropriate funeral honours here or to send him back to Rome as is.’

  The two legionaries hurried forwards and the praetorian gently placed the head back in the box, fastened it, and let the two men take it. They hurried out.

  ‘You. Septimius. You are responsible for this deed?’

  ‘I wielded the blade, General, I and my companion here. It was the command of the pharaoh, though, delivered through his regent Potheinus.’

  ‘In my experience, regents rarely consult their charges before issuing orders,’ Caesar growled. ‘You are both under arrest for the murder of a Roman citizen. You may be in service to Ptolemy and he may issue your wages, but you are still soldiers of a Roman legion in service. You shall be given the right of a proper trial, as you are citizens, and until that time you will be incarcerated in the palace barracks.’

  Septimius bristled angrily, though his companion simply seemed to accept the judgement. The two were bustled out by Ingenuus’ men swiftly.

  ‘I shall see to their imprisonment, sir,’ Salvius said suddenly, and began to walk out before Caesar could comment on the statement. Fronto frowned after his tribune, then turned to Caesar, who also wore a suspicious, curious expression. The general nodded, and Fronto turned and hurried out after the prison detachment. He caught up with Salvius Cursor at the bottom of the wide steps, the tribune following the two prisoners and their praetorian escort at a short distance.

 
; ‘What is going on?’ said Fronto.

  Salvius failed entirely to react and so Fronto reached out and grabbed his upper arm, dragging him to a halt. To his shock, the tribune turned with a pugio in his hand and the most dreadful expression on his face. He did not lunge with the dagger, but Fronto felt certain he’d at least weighed it up as an option.

  ‘Talk to me, tribune,’ he said, trying something more official. It had the desired effect. Salvius lowered his dagger and seemed to deflate slightly.

  ‘Pompey is dead.’

  ‘Yes,’ Fronto said.

  ‘Caesar is not happy about it, and neither am I.’

  Fronto frowned. ‘Caesar might not appear happy on the surface but I suspect that, whatever he wants people to think, the next time he’s alone he’ll jump up and down with bloody glee. What to do with Pompey when we caught him is a thorny problem that’s been weighing us down for a long time. He’s a Roman citizen and hero. We couldn’t kill him, except on the battlefield, yet he couldn’t be allowed to go free, as he’ll always be a threat. Those two men did Caesar an enormous service. We just can’t make it look that way in public.’

  ‘I’m not happy, because it was meant to be my blade that did it, and not my brother’s!’

  Fronto’s jaw fell open. Now he suddenly realised why the other centurion had looked faintly familiar. Why the man had spent his time looking at Salvius, slightly removed from the scene.

  ‘Him?’

  ‘Marcus. Marcus Salvius Aper. Last I heard he was serving under Gabinius in Syria. Not a surprise to find he’s still with the Gabiniani, though he never sticks to anything, so I suppose it should be.’ There was, Fronto noted, more than a touch of bitterness there. Something else connected to Salvius’ untold story, clearly.